The doorbell rang. It was his neighbor from across the hall, photographer Barbara Banks. He’d known Barbara for years. She was the only one who truly understood him, and she often dropped by late at night to try and get back some of the money he owed her.

How Mr. Chatterbox admired Barbara. No longer a spring chicken, she had somehow maintained the admiration of the young. With her smart capri pants and her wind-tousled mane, she was everything he wished he could be.

Barbara lounged on his sectional as he told her what had happened.

“You’ve got a problem,” she agreed.

“What am I going to do?”

“First of all, pull yourself together. Quit crying and get up off the floor. You’ve got to get some kind of job. Immediately.”

“Like what? Delivering pizza? I can’t do that. It’s undignified, and besides I no longer drive after dark.”

“Maybe Sally Schule needs a perfume spritzer at Saks. Maybe Phil Mancini needs a catering waiter.”

“Me serving food to everybody in Sarasota? To the people I write about? Warming up Marjorie North’s decaf? Bringing Annette Scherman some more s’mores? I don’t think so.”

We both thought hard for a moment.

“You could sell real estate. I hear a lot of jobs are open.”

“Please. I need income.”

Silence again.

Then Barbara clapped her hands. “I know. Selena Van Tisdale is looking for an assistant.”

Mr. Chatterbox’s eyes lit up. Selena Van Tisdale. She was the golden girl of the moment. Her name was on everybody’s lips. She had her own online realty firm. She was on the museum board. She was on the list of Sarasota’s 100 Most Powerful People. And she was still in her 20s. They called her the female Matt Orr.

So what if it was just an assistant job. Why, once he got his foot in the door . . . He could escort her to parties. People would fawn over him, just to get access. And the opportunities for pilfering the petty cash must be unlimited. Maybe . . . just maybe . . . he could talk her into buying Scene Magazine. Then he’d have his old column back again.

“Oh, please,” he begged Barbara. “Call her. Call her.”

Selena Van Tisdale lived in the penthouse at 1350 Main. On the top floor the ceilings were much higher and the units much larger. Mr. Chatterbox saw unit No. 1 as soon as he stepped off the elevator.

He rang the bell and waited. Nothing happened. Presently he rang again. At this moment the door opened.

“Don’t ring twice,” said a very angry young woman. “What do you want?”

“Is Selena in?”

“Do you mean Miss Van Tisdale?”

“I’m sorry. . . I think she’s expecting me.”

“Nonsense. I’m Miss Van Tisdale,” she said, and she shut the door.

Mr. Chatterbox rang again.

“Yes?” said Miss Van Tisdale, appearing instantly. “Oh, it’s you. Are you here about the vacuum cleaner?”

“No.”

“Well, I can’t see you right now. I’m expecting some old geezer who wants to work for me.”

“But I want to work for you.”

“What an extraordinary coincidence. Well, I suppose I can talk to you after I talk to him. Come in and wait.”

Mr. Chatterbox followed Selena into the living room. All of Sarasota lay spread out before him—the magnificent condos of downtown, many in foreclosure, the vacant lots, the giant tooth, the traffic jam, the flotilla of homeless people who lived on the bay. He flinched as a seagull flew into the plate glass window and fell to the terrace, dead.

“That’s another one of your duties,” Selena said. “Clean up all the dead seagulls.”

Mr. Chatterbox studied his possible new employer. She was everything you hated in a young person. Her face was taut and unlined. Her hair was golden and probably extended, and when she flung it around for emphasis it moved like a whip. Her clothes, though casual in the extreme, were the most expensive that Snitch had to offer. As he sat there she made several calls on her cell phone and ate yogurt. She ignored him totally.

I need this job, Mr. Chatterbox kept repeating to himself. I need this job.

There were calls to and from Andrew and Amie and Tom and Liesl. And Marjorie and Margaret and Veronica and Drayton. And Unni and Ulla and the Bobs. Finally she got up for more yogurt and the phone rang again. “Get that,” she yelled.